Location: Fubar, capital of Orkney
Timeline: Sixth Age, 52nd Year, Winter
As Ramssee stepped from the palace’s main portico, he didn’t call for his royal guard. Instead, he whistled for a private, unadorned sleigh. The driver, a man well known to the Steward had a face like crumpled parchment and ears that stayed open in every tavern in Fubar – which is why Ramssee wanted him for this ‘mission.’ Climbing down from the driver’s box, the man bowed low into the icy slush as he moved to help the Royal Steward into the sled – the only vehicle capable of navigating the hard packed snow at this time of year.
But Ramssee didn’t board immediately, instead he stood in the shadow of a stone buttress, the wind whipping his velvet robes. He leaned in close to the driver, his voice a low, melodic murmur that carried the weight of a death sentence.
“Gerrick,” Ramssee began, his eyes reflecting the sickly orange light of the palace torches. “The city is quiet tonight. Too quiet. They need something to talk about over their ale—something to explain why the grain is scarce and why the winter feels so… cursed this year.”
The driver nodded slowly. “The folk are already whispering, My Lord. They say the King’s Miners have found a bad omen.”
“A bad omen? No, Gerrick. It is much worse than that.” Ramssee placed a heavy, gloved hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you more when we get closer to our destination.”
“Are you sure you want to go…there?” The man stammered.
“I must. It is the king’s will.” And before the driver could object further Ramssee commanded. “Let’s go. I promise you will be safe.”
In a short time Ramssee’s sleigh left the heavy embrace of Fubar’s city walls, the iron-shod runners of the sleigh hissing over the ice-crusted snow like a serpent through dry grass. The urban sprawl of the city eventually gave way to the ancient, twisted woods that bordered Ramssee’s old estate—once beautiful, it was now a place of skeletal oaks and black pines that seemed to groan under the weight of the freezing fog.
When they reached the deepest part of the wood, where the trees crowded the road like silent executioners, Ramssee rapped his cane against the back of the driver’s seat. The sleigh skidded to a halt. The silence of the forest was immediate and suffocating.
“Gerrick, step down,” Ramssee commanded. “Talk to me.”
“Here, lord?” The driver was surprised. “But it’s not…safe. Surel–“
“You will do as I wish. Now!”
The driver immediately complied, his breath blooming in the air like ghostly plumes as he helped the Steward exit the sled. Ramssee stepped out, his always athletic frame draped in heavy charcoal wool and furs that made him blend into the shadows. “Come with me.” And he led the scared man toward the edge of the dark treeline.
“Look there, Gerrick,” Ramssee whispered, gesturing toward a massive oak. Hanging from a low branch was the mangled carcass of a stag, its ribcage torn open with a strength no wolf possessed.
“Master, let us leave. now!” The driver looked around, fearing the worst.
But Ramssee persisted, pointing afar towards a place where the moonlight showed the snow sprayed with a dark, frozen violet—blood that had turned to ice before it could soak into the earth. As the man backed away, the Steward held his arm, “Wait, do you hear it?”
Strange, guttural shrieks echoed from the direction of the villa in the distance, sounds that were too deep to be birds and too rhythmic to be the wind.
“Master… please,” Gerrick stammered, his eyes darting toward the dilapidated silhouette of the old villa in the distance. In the dead of winter, the manor looked like a rotting corpse of stone, its roof sagging like a broken spine, yet from the jagged, glassless windows, a pulsing, sickly purple light flickered. “We should not be here. The taverns say no one returns from these woods!”
“Have you noticed how the air smells of sulfur and old blood?” Ramssee pretended to ignore the man’s fears even as watched Gerrick’s knees begin to shake. “This is the heart of it, you know. This is where the beast King Diked brought from Ramos makes his lair.”
“What are you saying?” The poor servant gasped. “That the stories about the…monster…are true?”
Ramsse laid a comforting hand on the driver, and after a sigh he said, “The truth is that our King is being haunted. There is a monster – a dreaded gargoyle – that has followed him here from his last trip to far away Ramos.
Gerrick’s eyes went wide, reflecting a genuine, sudden terror. “A… a gargoyle, My Lord? How do we get rid of it?”
“Sadly, it appears that nothing can make this evil beast leave our lands until Baal himself calls him back to hell. Until then, the King must pay a secret ransom of victims to keep the fell creature from devouring our entire city. That’s why so many poor souls’ are disappearing.”
“The taverns are full of talk of the lost ones!”
“Sadly, it would appear that we serve a ‘Doomed King,’ Gerrick. His weakness has brought a demon to our gates.”
“But why are you here? Surely we must leave, now!”
“I can’t.” Ramssee’s lied, his voice thick with heroic, yet fabricated, sorrow. “The King has commanded me to go to the monster – to arrange for the next…payment. Try though I might to avoid it, we must comply or the entire city will perish in flames. Yet Diked is too terrified to face the consequence of his own folly, so he sends me. I carry the promises of more victims—to keep this gargoyle from entering the city gates – which he might do even tonight. He is a Doomed King, Gerrick, trading the lives of his subjects to save his own skin.”
“Surely something can be done. What would you do in his position, master?”
The Steward hid a sly smile. “Although I have many plans, alas, friend, I am not in Diked’s ‘position,’ am I?” Then using the Power of Persuasion that I’d equipped him with when I first created him to do my bidding, Ramssee influenced the pawn. “A king without his citizens is no king as all. What can you do, Garrick? Spread the word. Let your kith and kin know that Diked the Doomed is trading their lives for his own. Let the people know that as long as he sits on the throne, the monster he brought will continue to haunt us from the shadows of Fubar, always waiting to strike.”
“But you, My Lord! You go toward it while he hides in his silk bed!” Gerrick’s terror was now mingled with a burgeoning, desperate respect. “You could be torn apart!”
Ramssee looked long at the servant, his gaze was stoic, the picture of a martyr. “If I do not do this, the monster will feast on the children of Fubar by morning. I am but a servant of the people, Gerrick. If I must die to buy the city one more night of peace, then so be it.”
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, melodic vibration that seeped into the driver’s mind. “When you return to the taverns, tell them what you saw. Tell them Ramssee walked into the demon’s mouth to save our lands. And…perhaps let the people know that as long as Diked sits on the throne, this horror will remain our neighbor.”
He dropped a heavy purse of silver into Gerrick’s hand. “Go now. Drive as if Baal himself is at your heels. Do not look back.”
“Master, please! Come back with me!” Gerrick begged, tears of fright freezing on his cheeks.
“I have a duty to the realm,” Ramssee said, turning his back and walking with measured, fearless strides toward the dilapidated villa, where a fresh scream echoed through the pines.
Gerrick didn’t wait. He scrambled onto the driver’s box, lashed the horses into a blind frenzy, and vanished into the fog, the sound of the sleigh’s retreat a frantic drumming of hooves.
Left alone in the freezing dark, Ramssee’s stoic expression vanished, replaced by a wide, needle-toothed grin. He didn’t fear the monster; in his mind he owned it. Dusting the snow from his sleeves, he walked calmly toward the flickering purple light of the villa, delighted at how he had just turned a King into a pariah and a Myz into a ghost story. By the time he returned from his old villa in a few days, the first whispers of Diked’s downfall would surely already be echoing through the back-alleys of Fubar.
The Old Villa
Still covered by the treeline, Ramssee casually observed his old haunts. This was his original villa, the once beautiful manor that the benevolent former ruler of Fubar King Karl had gifted him when the viperz had first burst onto the scene and made a name for himself in Orkney high society. Back when the “influential” stranger from the West had seduced the court with his silver tongue and the subtle, oily pull of his magical persuasive powers. The villa had served the viperz well, yet now the place smelled of old secrets and forgotten ambitions.
After he’d moved into the main castle, Ramssee had gifted the manor to Kaoz – needing a place to keep the monstrous Myz away from the public eye while the latter waited for the Akka miners to find the Grim. The giant let the estate fall into disrepair – a grotesque shadow of its former self. The once-manicured grounds were a graveyard of frozen filth. As Ramssee began to approach, the flickering purple light from the open windows illuminated the macabre “decorations” Kaoz had erected. Mutilated carcasses of forest predators—wolves and mountain cats—were spiked onto the iron fence pickets like morbid sentries, their entrails frozen into long, glistening icicles. The monster had clearly claimed this territory, and he had marked it with the only language he knew: slaughter.
Not afraid, the viperz boldly walked forward into the courtyard. As his boots crunched through the gore-stained snow, he saw that the iron pickets were also laden with the remains of the “lost ones” the driver Gerrick had whispered about in the taverns. Three palace guards who had been sent to deliver supplies a moon ago were now part of the architecture. Their heads were mounted on the stone gateposts, frozen mid-scream, their skin turned a bruised, marble-blue.
Below them, a pile of limbs had been stacked like cordwood near the old servant’s entrance, stripped of their clothing to expose the jagged, bite-marked bone. It was clear Kaoz had not just been killing; he had been harvesting. The Myz had transformed the once-regal courtyard into a butcher’s open-air larder, where the freezing North wind preserved his grisly trophies in a permanent, silent gala of death.
“What a shame.” The viperz shook his head in disgust.
Ramssee wasn’t so much dismayed at victims’ plight, as he was at the poor condition of a place he once called ‘home.’ Nonetheless, he entered through the broken doors and made his way inside – the relative warmth of the interior doing little to mask the sudden, heavy scent of musk, rotten flesh, and rusted metals. That’s when he also heard the screaming.
“Kaoz. What are you up to, old boy?” Not wanting to add to the Myz’s trophy collection, Ramssee thought it wise to announce his presence.
When the beast didn’t answer, the viperz cautiously moved towards where the sounds were coming from – the main hall. When he entered that area, Ramssee’s eyes were immediately drawn to the corner of the great room, where the shadows seemed to writhe. A muffled, wet whimpering echoed against the high rafters. There, suspended from the massive iron chandelier by his own hamstrings, was a young man—likely an unfortunate traveler caught on the road. He was stripped bare, his body a map of shallow, incisions.
Ramssee saw Kaoz standing beside the hanging man.
“Kaoz heard.” The Myz grumbled without turning away from his work.
Ramssee watched as Kaoz then reached out a slate-grey hand and dragged a single, razor-sharp claw down the man’s ribcage. The victim erupted into a fresh, bubbling scream.
Smiling, the monster turned to face his friend. “Snakeman try?” Kaoz held out a jagged piece of flint, his teeth glinting in a mocking invitation.
Ramssee looked at the dying man—a commoner of no consequence—and felt nothing but a mild annoyance at the mess. Although he wasn’t above such violence in the past, he recoiled now, his lip curling in a sneer of high-born distaste.”I have no interest in your crude hobbies,” the Steward snapped, adjusting his velvet cuffs to avoid a stray spray of blood. “Keep your ‘play.’ I am here business, not your offal.”
Kaoz’s jagged laugh echoed through the hall again, a sound of pure, ancient malice as he turned back to the nearly dead victim – with a viscous swipe of his meat paw he ripped out the man’s throat. Covered in blood, the Myz began pacing in the center of the room, his massive body making the high-beamed ceiling feel claustrophobic.
“You look restless, creature,” Ramssee remarked, shedding his heavy wool furs and tossing them onto a chair that had been gnawed to splinters. “Perhaps a bit of good news will settle your humors. I’ve decided to send King’s fiance you kidnapped back to Monthaven. We’re going to squeeze her father for three times the original dowry. A king’s ransom for a spoiled merchant’s ‘honor’. You can leave with her on the morrow. As for the maid, have your way with her if you like.”
Kaoz stopped mid-stride. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the whistle of the wind through the dilapidated eaves. He turned his head slowly, the vertebrae in his neck clicking like a tumbler in a lock. His black eyes, devoid of iris or pupil, fixed on Ramssee with a look of terrifying, silent mirth. A low, guttural vibration—a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so devoid of joy—rumbled deep in his cavernous chest.
“Ransom?” Kaoz hissed, the word grinding like millstones. “No ransom. No father.”
Ramssee narrowed his eyes, “What are you talking about? Merrill Finch is the wealthiest man in Pennal. He will pay any price to get his daughter back and hide her shame..”
“Finch… ash,” Kaoz smiled. Then he took a heavy, deliberate step toward the Regent, the floorboards groaning under his immense weight, as he dared the viperz to challenge his words. “Kaz destroyed village. Kaoz killed all.”
Ramssee’s face went a sickly, pale grey. What do you mean, you killed all? Surely not the merchant?” When it became clear that this is exactly what Kaoz did, Ramssee’s voice became a strangled whisper, the “influence” he usually held over others failing him in the face of such senseless violence. “I told you to fetch the girl! I didn’t tell you to erase the source of the gold! You’ve ruined it, you big lout! Without her father, Lynsy Finch is nothing but a pregnant mouth to feed, a liability that ties us to your foolish massacre!”
Unfazed, Kaoz leaned in closer, his sharp teeth glinting like shards of glass in the low firelight. His breath was cold, smelling of the grave. “Kaoz Myz. Kaoz not ‘fetch.’ Myz destroy. For Goddess!”
Ramssee felt a cold pit open in his stomach. His “Triple Dowry” plan—the clever, cunning maneuver Monnik had whispered in the dark to solve all their problems—was now dead before the ink on the ransom note was even dry. He was now stuck with an infertile King, a pregnant prisoner with no family to pay for her, and a Myz who was beginning to realize that he didn’t need a Regent’s permission to kill.
“You fool,” Ramssee hissed, though his voice lacked its usual bite, suppressed by the sheer, suffocating malice radiating from the giant. “You’ve turned my gold mine into a tomb.”
“Kaoz like tombs,” The monster replied, turning back to his pacing, his heavy footfalls echoing like a funeral drum. “Fubar tomb. Diked corpse. Where Grim? Kaoz tired waiting. Inanna calls.”
Ramssee didn’t answer. Instead he ran out of the villa and back into the storm, his mind racing like a cornered animal. The plan had changed – again. Lynsy Finch was no longer a prize; she was a witness to a massacre and a burden he could no longer afford to keep. He chose a mount from the stables – the beast surely grateful to escape Kaoz’ world – and then made his way back toward the palace. As he rode, Ramssee realized he would still have to find a way to dispose of Lynsy—and perhaps the Myz too—before the truth of the Scourge of Monthaven brought the kingdoms of Pennal into battle against Orkney. The Steward regretted that he had unleashed a demon, and now he realized that demon had no intention of serving him like he’d counted on.
The league back to Fubar passed quickly. Ramssee’ mind, always a chaotic loom of schemes, was weaving faster than ever. There were more problems than just angry lords in Pennal. The gold of Akka is gone, he thought, his jaw tightening. With Merrill and Dugan dead, the Finch fortune was a ghost. Without that influx of Southern coin, the greedy estate barons of Orkney would soon turn their hungry eyes toward the throne. But Ramssee still needed time. And he needed a distraction, a shield — and Diked was the perfect target for their ire.
I want his throne, but not until I can get rid of Kaoz first. That means I still need to find The Grim. That means we still need our miners working The Deepest Depths. Yet, I don’t want to be the one to keep the treasures from the hands of the greedy estate barons; that’s Diked’s misfortune. Let the Lords hate the King while I remain the indispensable advisor.
He turned his thoughts to Lynsy again. How can we get rid of her? How do it without incident? What is the easiest way? He pictured her pale face and the way she clung to that locket. Yet… something tells me she may yet be useful. She could be the wedge that finally drives Diked to disappear. Let her stay in the flat for now. A prisoner in silk is better than a corpse in the mud—until the timing is right.
Finally, his mind returned to the Myz. The brute was a loose cannon, a butcher who didn’t understand the nuance of power. I can’t keep having him messing up my plans. If I can’t control him soon by finding that damn dagger, I’m going to have to eliminate him. A dark, brilliant realization bloomed in his mind. Perhaps kill Diked, then bring Kaoz in as the assassin! I can reveal him as the roadside murderer, the monster haunting the North. The people will cheer as I execute the ‘Gargoyle.’ I won’t even need the dagger. I can re-open the treasure trove, share the wealth with the Lords, and secure the throne forever.
Ramssee smiled wide, the faint, needle-like fangs of his Viperz heritage showing in the dim light as he reached the city gates and swiftly passed inside. As he neared the palace, he realized he was delighted with the way the moonlight cascaded over his shadow. Indeed, the fool believed there was hope yet to salvage his plans.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 